Groundhog day

I am not really sure why this happens, but it certainly feels like a deliberate attempt to drive me insane. Bitti creates these infuriating circular conversations that have you questioning your sanity and drawing upon every last ounce of patience. For example, this beauty from all the nights of the week:

‘Mummy, can I have a drink?’

‘Sure, here.’

‘No, from my pink bottle.’

‘Get off me, I’ll get it.’

I’m halfway across the room to get the bottle she just requested and I hear, ‘Mummy, where are you going?’

‘To get your drink bottle.’

‘But, why?’

Are you serious? Because you just frigging asked me for it you goldfish. I’m really starting to be concerned about her short-term memory.

Similar thing happens if I go upstairs to get dressed, shower or use the toilet alone. I spend a few minutes going over my plans, making sure she has something she’s engrossed in downstairs. I leave her apparently happy, absorbed in pouring water from one cup to another, or stacking Frozen stickers one on top of another (why??). However, no matter how content she seemed to be when I left the room, not 30 seconds after I reach my upstairs destination I hear the dreaded call, ‘Muuuuuuuumyyyyyyy, where are you?’

Sigh. ‘I’m upstairs.’ Like I said a hundred times before I came here. Now the neighbours can hear us talk about it too as we bellow at each other.

‘Come down!’

‘I’m getting dressed/weeing/showering, leave me alone for a few minutes please.’

Desolate cries emanate from below as she wallows in her misery on the bottom of the stairs.

‘Just come up if it’s that bad.’

‘I can’t. I’m stuck.’


‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Waaaaaaaa, wa wa etc.’ comes the considered and well reasoned reply. Less than a minute alone on the ground floor of the dwelling she has resided in for two and a half years and she is apparently in mortal danger without my presence. Even in the face of such horror down below, ascending the stairs that she gleefully tackled solo from age 10 months is also now unconscionable. Her life is truly girt by misery.

While it is endearing to be so needed, I cannot help but day dream about the day I will be able to dress without being interrupted 15 times to settle a dispute between two stuffed animals, or assume the identity of a Disney character, or fix an invisible and imaginary injury (an injury that will later be submitted as a reason for her being unable to dress). Maybe one day I will be able to both select and don my outfit for the day in the space of 30 seconds, rather than spend five chronically interrupted minutes walking aimlessly from wardrobe to drawers collecting mismatched items that do not suit the forecast temperature for the day.

I suspect that day is far from now, so look forward to many more circular conversations and interrupted wardrobing attempts in the years to come.



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